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          Philosophic

in its complex, ovoid emptiness,

a skillful pundit coined it as a sort

    of stopgap doorstop for those

           quaint equations

           Romans never

dreamt of. In form completely clever

and discrete—a mirror come unsilvered,

     loose watch face without the works,

              a hollowed globe

            from tip to toe

unbroken, it evades the grappling

hooks of mass, tilts the thin rim of no thing,

     remains embryonic sum,

             non-cogito.